Ian Parker stands with his arms raised, chest hair dark against the glittering black, his tattoos sharp under the light as he pours liquid from a long-spouted bottle onto his stomach. The bottle hovers near his asshole, then his face, each splash deliberate, his muscular frame leaning back as if testing the weight of what he’s about to take. The liquid glistens where it lands, pooling just enough to make the next pour inevitable.
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